White Church, Black Mountain

by Thomas Paul Burgess

  “He’s only using you, dear; I’ve known men like that all my life.”

  Nothing could have been further from the truth, thought Emily.

  She was unaware of any relationship involving the older woman.

  For all she knew, Rosemary Payne was still a virgin.

  Sometimes she felt that Rosemary might have feelings for her that went beyond acceptable levels of matronly concern.

  She endured these lectures partly for reasons of house politics and partly as a kindness to the woman (as she sensed that Rosemary somehow needed to play the role of the worldly-wise veteran), but always made sure that their conversations took place in the communal area of the kitchen and never in the privacy of each other’s bedrooms.

  As Rosemary droned on about damson jam, Woman’s Hour and the menopause, Emily would remove her glasses and set them on the table. Such was the paucity of her eyesight that this simple act rendered the speaker unrecognisable.

  A dull blur overset with colours, swirls and floaters drifting across her field of vision.

  It helped her to ‘zone out’ of any exchange she considered unpalatable, and offered a respite to the effronteries of the real world.

  Her secret concern was that she was retreating there much too often.

  *

  Emily re-entered her classroom.

  The walls were covered in brightly-coloured drawings and posters.

  Paint and glue pots sat around the table tops with sand trays, a fish tank and a cage containing Herbie the hamster.

  She instructed the children to form a close ring around her at the centre of the room and be seated.

  Her enraptured charges obliged.

  Jill, the classroom assistant, was busy at the sink washing out paintbrushes.

  Emily picked up the book she had been reading before break time and motioned the children to lean in closer, speaking in an intimate whisper.

  “And that is why sea lions and turtles, to this very day, still share their secrets – and their picnics – on the shores of the enchanted sea, under the marble moon.”

  She opened the book wide and showed it around so as the children could see pop-up characters inside.

  “Alright children, that’s today’s story. What we are going to do for the remainder of the day is something called ‘things and people’, and this time instead of all those lazybones sitting still and listening to me, this game means that everyone has to take part.”

  A little boy raised his hand. “Miss, I need a wee.”

  “Alright Nicky, Jill will take you.”

  The woman had already left the sink and was now shepherding the child to the door.

  “Alright everyone.” Emily clapped her hands for efficiency. “Gather round; gather round.”

  The children had long since become used to her English accent, the Brummie softened to the point of being almost unrecognisable.

  Emily opened a box.

  “Now what we have here are some objects… let’s see what we have, shall we? What’s this? A letter, a milk bottle – yes that’s right, Steven – an umbrella, and this is a thermometer for taking your temperature. And what’s this?”

  They all responded in unison. “A hammer, Miss.”

  “That’s right; a hammer, a parcel and a compass… now let’s see who is on these cards as I turn them over…”

  The picture cards variously featured a workman, a postman, a soldier, a milkman, a city gent and a doctor.

  “Okay,” said Emily, “who will go first?”

  Little arms shot up into the air. “Miss! Miss!”

  “Let’s see… Janet, who does the hammer go to?”

  “Workman, Miss.”

  “Very good, Janet. Hannah, who does the thermometer go to?”

  “Doctor, Miss.”

  “Excellent, Hannah.”

  Little Nicky had returned from the toilet and sat on the fringes of the circle.

  “Ah, Nicky – who does the parcel go to?”

  “Ummm… the policeman, Miss.”

  “Take your time Nicky…” Emily held up the card with the postman on it encouragingly. “Try again.”

  “Miss! Miss! Miss!”

  Hands punched the sky. This competitive streak amongst those so young never failed to unsettle her.

  The boy was adamant. “Policeman, Miss.”

  Emily was becoming a little wary of where this was going.

  “And why is that, Nicky?”

  “Because it’s a bomb, Miss.”

  The others went quiet save for a titter or two.

  Emily had been here before with these children.

  It was profoundly disturbing. “No, it’s just a parcel, Nicky. What about this?”

  She held up a milk bottle.

  “Policeman, Miss.”

  Emily was allowing her mood to sour her day.

  She heard herself say, with a marked degree of tetchiness, “So the milk bottle goes to the policeman; why not the milkman?” She held up the picture card.

  “Cuz they take them off of him… to throw at the policemen, Miss.”

  Hannah chipped in. “Petrol bombs Miss; they’re called petrol bombs.”

  “What? Yes, thank you Hannah. I just… ah… everyone back to their desks and get their colouring crayons and books out please.”

  She looked around for the class assistant. “Jill… could I have a quick word?”

  The woman had been arranging library books in a corner of the classroom. Emily heard her voice rise in a faintly hysterical whisper.

  “Jill, did you see that? My God, what age are these kids – four; five – and it’s Nicky Patterson again! Jill, I’ll have to speak to Mrs Andrews about this… she should know these things go on.”

  The older woman looked tired and wholly nonplussed. This was well above her pay grade.

  “Oh, I think you’ll find she knows already.”

  Emily wasn’t sure if she detected a hint of mockery.

  She was about to leave it there when Jill said, “I’ve heard my own two at it, singing If I had a penny rope, sure I’d hang the friggin’ Pope – what can you do? They see it all around them.”

  She had moved across to the sink and was wringing out a towel. “And most of the kids in this school, they’re from fairly well-off families. Sometimes it’s what they don’t say, but it’s still there all the same.”

  Emily felt like sitting down right there in the centre of the classroom and crying.

  They never trained me for this, she thought for the umpteenth time.

  Yet none of this came as a surprise particularly.

  She was just having a bad day.

  Jill noticed her wilting. “Now they’ve got their crayons out; for God’s sake don’t let them draw flags and emblems!”

  Both women laughed, though neither really enjoyed the humour.

  31

  Outside Newry Cathedral, August 1991

  In a far-off corner of the cathedral car park, a man in a standard-issue BBC outside broadcast jacket made some finishing adjustments to a tripod stand holding a square halogen light.

  Beside him his colleague twisted some knobs for level on a recording device hung around his neck. He did so with some difficulty as he simultaneously endeavoured to keep hold of a shaggy mic attached to a long boom stand, whilst fiddling with his headphones.

  Councillor Terry Molloy squinted and held his hand up to shield his eyes as the lighting rig hummed into life.

  “Jesus, it’s like being back in Castlereagh interrogation centre,” he said.

  Everybody laughed without irony.

  A veteran of the movement, he’d been identified early on by the Army Council as elected representative material, and was one of the first to be schooled by Danny Morrison and the party media training initiative.

  Licking his palm and smoothing his eyebrows, he patted his bald spot somewhat self-consciously.

  Sledger and Tootsie hung back in the shadows watching, scarves pulled up to cover their f
aces.

  Terry Molloy slipped effortlessly into gear and was off.

  “Of course I can’t speak for the IRA, but what people need to understand here is that the organisation is only acting on the wishes of the community. The police are not welcome here, we all know that, but people are being run over by car thieves; pensioners are being beaten up in their homes… parents have asked the organisation to punish their own sons – even shoot them – because frankly… well, they can’t do anything with them. From what I’m given to understand they’re not shot straight off; it starts with a slap or a beating. But if they persist, then they get put out of the area. Now we in Sinn Féin of course could never sanction such action, but this unfortunate situation, whereby these two men have taken so-called sanctuary in Newry Cathedral, well… it’s been created by the men themselves…”

  Sledger watched in unbridled admiration.

  “Fuck, your brother could talk for Ireland.”

  Tootsie beamed proudly.

  “That’s what he does, Sledge… He does what he does, and you do what you do.”

  Councillor Molloy rounded it off, cracked familiar with the crew and joined his audience.

  He was clearly pleased with himself.

  “BBC, nine o’clock news tomorrow. It’s a voice-over job but the message will still get across.”

  Molloy was referring to the broadcasting ban that was still in force for Sinn Féin spokespeople.

  “Christ, those actors in Belfast must be shittin’ themselves with all this talk of a ceasefire. They’ll all be out of a job!” Tootsie was buzzing.

  Terry Molloy ignored him. “D’ya like the Armani?” He gestured to his sharp suit.

  Tootsie nudged Sledger knowingly. “I’d like to see the receipt!”

  Terry Molloy pulled on his lapels. “Party issue… we know a man, who knows a man.”

  His younger brother was laughing, basking in the notoriety that had somehow become celebrity.

  “Funny, I thought I saw a story about them on the six o’clock news as well… warehouse fire and theft… but I didn’t see any mention of you on that.”

  The councillor’s mood darkened. He was not amused. Instead he slapped Tootsie down with guilt drawn from demeaning domesticity.

  “Were you thinking of calling around to see your sainted mother any time soon?”

  “Ach, not now Terry. Save it, eh?” Tootsie was suddenly sheepish and awkward.

  “You treat that house like a fuckin’ hotel, you dump yer dirty Y fronts for washing when it suits you and expect that woman – a pensioner, mind – to take a scrubbing brush to them.”

  “Not now!”

  Sledger pulled his scarf down from his face for the first time. He was grinning widely.

  “She’s an oul woman… you treat her like a skivvy.”

  Tootsie was cornered and contrite. “Tell her I’ll be round at the weekend.”

  “Aye, for your Sunday dinner, hung over and stretched out with the papers on the sofa, scratchin’ your arse and nobody can look at you twice.”

  “Lay off Terry, right!”

  Molloy turned to the big man. “Sledger, will you slap him or will I?”

  Before he could answer, Molloy grabbed his brother in a friendly bear hug and play-wrestled him into a headlock. Tootsie took it in the knowledge that this indicated the end of the lecture.

  Molloy nodded up at the window in the cathedral wall. “What’s the latest?”

  Sledger pulled his scarf back up. “No change.”

  “Look Sledger, now I’ve a chance to talk to you…” He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “You know this has all been kicked upstairs, right? Army Council, I mean… top flight… you get my drift?”

  Sledger was dismissive to the point of insolence “And?”

  “It’s just, if we go in after them – and I say if – it will come from them and not before.”

  The big man straightened and pushed out his chest.

  “If I’d wanted to go in of my own accord it already would have happened, and we wouldn’t be stood here like two hoors at a hockey match talkin’ about it.”

  He pulled up his jacket to reveal the butt of a 2.2 handgun tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

  Molloy went apoplectic. “Put that a-fuckin’-way! Jesus, there’s a film crew just down the road! The war is as good as over; hadn’t you heard?”

  Sledger just smiled, unperturbed.

  Again Molloy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I take it you checked that out… through the quartermaster and that?”

  Sledger was now cockily chewing gum. “Relax, will ya? It’s not like you’ve never seen one before… Armani or no Armani.”

  Molloy went for the charm offensive.

  He moved closer to the big man and leaned into him. “Sledge, listen… if they should come out and I’m not here, whatever you do, don’t whack either of them, right? We’ve a safe house to take them to, they’ll go up in front of the lads and whatever happens will happen after that… only after that, do you get me?”

  Sledger said nothing.

  “Sledge, it’s important.”

  “I’m not promising nothing,” he said sullenly.

  Molloy was becoming agitated.

  “Sledger, listen: I am fuckin’ deadly serious here. Do NOT, under any circumstances, act of your own accord if you know what’s good for you. He’s Frankie Connolly’s brother for Christ sake!”

  Sledger suddenly exploded, causing the councillor to step back.

  “Frankie’s dead! What about this community? What about my sister, her house robbed and wrecked; her car fuckin’ totalled?”

  “Frankie Connolly died for Ireland. This community will do whatever the fuck we tell them to do, and your sister… your sister has three kids to three different men!”

  Calculated or not, it was an insult requiring satisfaction. Both men took a step toward each other.

  It was Tootsie Molloy who stepped in between them.

  “Ya see… ya see what they’re doin’? They’re getting yez at each other’s throats!”

  Terry Molloy was most enthusiastic to grasp the opportunity that his brother’s intervention offered. He held the palms of his hands up to Sledger in a placatory gesture. “Is he worth it, is all I’m saying?”

  Sledger’s blood was up.

  He sought some form of compensation. “And Gattuso?”

  Terry Molloy was happy to comply.

  “That greasy wee toe-rag deserves everything he has coming to him. You can fill your boots where he’s concerned.”

  32

  Inside the Cathedral Vestry

  1.27am

  Eban sat at the table, studying an unfinished game of chess left there.

  He assumed that Conor McVey had been one of the players, but looking around him, couldn’t believe that any of his fellows made up the opposition.

  He began to feel uncomfortable on the hard wooden chair he was perched on, fidgeting and with no real sense of time passing; keen to look at his watch without prejudice.

  Everyone seemed to be involved in some elaborate play at pretend nonchalance.

  Sinéad feigned reading a magazine, whilst Anto’s long body was stretched out horizontally, his head supported underneath his folded hands.

  Eban could see that he was not sleeping.

  Simply staring straight ahead at the skirting board.

  Ruairí repeatedly threw a tennis ball against the wall and caught it on the rebound.

  He knew that the metronomic thump must be an irritation to the others, but as if in defiance, stared hard and intently at Eban, daring him to reprimand him.

  Mrs Connolly had left an hour ago, for respite and for provisions.

  So soon into my watch and we’ve already run out of things to say to each other, Eban fretted to himself.

  Ruairí missed his catch and the break in rhythm seemed to galvanise him into engagement.

  “Why is it – I mean, is there a word for it when you’re
thinking about something; I mean, when it’s on your mind all the time and suddenly it’s everywhere you look?”

  Anto turned his head to look at him, puzzled. “Like what?”

  “Like babies.”

  Ruairí seemed still to be staring intently, even intimidatingly, at Eban.

  Without looking away he reached out beside him and held up a magazine showing the picture of an infant.

  He slapped it down again on the floor.

  Both young men looked across at Sinéad, who kept her head low, buried in the magazine.

  Ruairí switched his gaze to her.

  “I swear to God: TV ads for nappies; Calpol; pregnant women everywhere…”

  Anto tried to be supportive. “Like when I got them Adidas Commandos… next thing, everybody’s wearing them…”

  His confederate grinned at him, knowing he was playing deliberately stupid so as to make the better foil to Ruairí’s jibe when he decided to launch it.

  “No, but I mean… on the TV; everywhere!”

  Eban could sense that the young men were circling Sinéad, bored and about to savage her for some easy sport at the kid’s expense. Not knowing how to defuse this, he gestured at the chessboard and blurted out, “Someone’s in check.”

  Sinéad, who had been following the foreplay to the pending attack from behind her magazine, grabbed the lifeline desperately.

  “Ruairí and Conor keep a game going between them. He’s good, our Ruairí.”

  Eban was unable to conceal his surprise. He looked at Ruairí and arched his eyebrows. “Really?”

  Sinéad seemed proud. “He’ll give you a game if you want… won’t you, Ruairí?”

  The young man ignored her, continuing to stare at Eban. She raised her voice. “RUAIRÍ!”

  Still nothing but that intense stare.

  Eban felt transparent, like Ruairí was looking right through him.

  He looked at his watch to break the spell.

  Anto saw this.

  “Looking at that won’t make the time pass any faster, pal… especially on the night watch.”